


with tides in your favour

by apollothyme



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drunken Flirting, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 02:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13514652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollothyme/pseuds/apollothyme
Summary: Paul’s cousin, Rick, gets married on a lovely Friday afternoon in early September.For a summer day, the weather is actually quite cool, with clear skies and a light breeze running through the air. Paul wears his favourite three-piece suit in dark grey, as well as a deep blue tie that, according to Straal, brings out the blue in his eyes.Now, it should be made clear that although Paul loves a good opportunity to look dashing, he does not wish to attend cousin Rick’s wedding. The reason why is quite simple: cousin Rick is a huge dick.





	with tides in your favour

**Author's Note:**

> decided to rework an old fic of mine into culmets because the world needs more shameless flirting and banter between these two. big love.

Paul’s cousin, Rick, gets married on a lovely Friday afternoon in early September.

For a summer day, the weather is actually quite cool, with clear skies and a light breeze running through the air. Paul wears his favourite three-piece suit in dark grey, as well as a deep blue tie that, according to Straal, brings out the blue in his eyes.

Now, it should be made clear that although Paul loves a good opportunity to look dashing, he does not wish to attend cousin Rick’s wedding. The reason why is quite simple: cousin Rick is a huge dick.

He’s that guy who makes lots of comments at dinner on how today’s youth doesn’t know how to behave and that women should go back to their roles as housewives. For the past three years, he has bought everyone socks for Christmas, even though he can certainly afford better gifts if the money he spent on his flashy wedding is of any indication.

Paul does not like cousin Rick. He has never liked cousin Rick. When they were teenagers, they got into a fight during a summer holiday that ended with Paul breaking Rick’s nose and being sent home early by his disgruntled aunt. His mom brings up the story whenever she wants to make him feel bad about something, and Paul plays along, pretending to feel guilty when, truthfully, he recalls Rick’s crying expression with fondness.

If anyone deserves this treatment, it’s fucking Rick. The last time he and Paul spent time together, Rick got mad at someone from crossing in line at the bar and then tried to set the guy’s car on _fire_ , running away and leaving Paul and his brother behind when he was caught.

Dick.

The only reason Paul is at his wedding is because his mom asked him to, citing something about mending broken bridges and forgetting the past. Paul doesn’t care about doing any of that, but his mom had asked and he didn’t have it in him to refuse.

When he emailed Rick his reply to the invitation, he hadn’t thought much about the whole deal. After all, it was just a wedding. How bad could it be?

The answer, he has found out, is extremely bad.

The wedding is ridiculous. Paul wants to be nice about it, but he can’t, because other than the weather being pleasant, there’s pretty much nothing enjoyable about the whole afternoon. There are over five hundred guests packed in a room not big enough to contain five hundred fucking people, the ceremony takes over two hours and Paul spends all of it next to Aunt Petra, who seems to have developed a chronic cough since the last time Paul saw her.

More than two dozen doves are released when the happy couple leaves the church, but apparently no one remembered to tell the bird trainer how long the ceremony would be. When the poor birds come out of their cages, at least two fall on the ground and die and one flies into a wall. Paul lets out a surprised laugh at how demented the whole thing is, just to be glared at by everyone near him.

And yet, somehow, despite how goddamn awful the whole thing is, the ceremony isn’t even the worst part of the day.

The worst is what comes next when Paul finds out who he is sat with during dinner.

Again, it bears repeating, cousin Rick is a dick. He is a narcissistic, resentful dick, and it is by no chance of fate that he sits Paul away from the rest of the family, next to a handful of strangers. To top it all off, the strangers are all couples disgustingly in love. Paul spends most of the dinner glaring at his plate and texting Straal as the people next to him eye fuck each other.

> **From Paul Stamets:** Curse Rick and his goddamn wedding.
> 
> **From Straal [mushroom emoji]:** have u punched anyone yet??? do i need 2 come and get u out of jail?
> 
> **From Paul Stamets:** Ah. Ah. Hilarious, Straal.
> 
> **From Paul Stamets:** He sat me away from my family and next to a bunch of couples. I’m bored out of my mind.
> 
> **From Straal [mushroom emoji]:** go make friends
> 
> **From Paul Stamets:** I’m not a 12 year old kid on the first day of school.
> 
> **From Straal [mushroom emoji]:** eh. debates still out on that. is there anyone hot?
> 
> **From Paul Stamets:** I repeat - he sat me next to a bunch of COUPLES.

The last message Paul gets before he switches off his phone is a simple **_so?? threesomes are popular right now._ **

Why he’s even friends with Straal is a mystery.

Paul sighs. He is a reasonably sociable person when he’s drunk, which he’s making a good headstart on, but being the third wheel to four different couples is not in his current ‘to do’ list and he doesn’t want to be in a threesome, thank you very much. Not right now, anyway.

At one point, his brother shows up at his table, laughs at his miserable figure for a solid two minutes and leaves without a word. If that bastard think he’s getting a decent birthday gift after this, he’s sorely mistaken.

Paul is so lost in the self-pity that it’s only after the vegetable course has been served that  he realizes there’s someone else at the table without a date. He has a warm smile and the firmest arms Paul has ever seen. That, plus the crisp black suit he’s wearing, gives him a ‘retired model who now owns a modelling agency that does money laundering on the side’ vibe.

Paul watches a lot of crime shows, though, so who knows.

GQ Cover Model, as Paul quickly names him, was talking to a girl at the start of the party. Now he’s alone and staring at his plate as he plays with the zucchini leftovers, looking as bored as Paul feels. With a quick glance around the room, Paul spots the girl GQ Cover Model had been talking to in the arms of another guy at the table next to theirs, leading him to make a decision that he may come to regret later.

With that said, a decision that he ‘may come to regret later’ describes at least half of all the decisions he makes, so it’s not as if this one is special.

“Hello,” Paul says, slipping onto the vacant seat next to the guy. “Did you know there’s an open bar at this wedding?”

GQ Cover Model looks confused for a second before he grins. “No, I did not. They must have forgotten to include it in the two-page invite they sent out.”

“You got a real invite? All I got was an email,” Paul replies. He’s as serious as he gets, but GQ Cover Model must assume he’s joking from the loud laugh he lets out.

“I’m Hugh Culber,” he says as he gives Paul his hand to shake.

“Paul Stamets,” and then, because Paul figures there’s no point in beating around the bush, he asks, “So, you wanna get drunk?”

Hugh laughs again, his eyes closing as a smile stretches across his face. “Definitely.”

Paul instantly likes him. Everyone who is open about wanting to get shit-faced is someone whose company he can enjoy.

They ditch the rest of the dinner, which Paul doesn’t regret at all. There’s only so many mini, pretentious dishes he can eat before he says enough is enough, zucchini doesn’t even taste good.

“Who are you with, bride or groom?” Hugh asks him once they’ve found two good seats by the bar, close enough that getting their drinks is easy, but not so close that whoever sees them can immediately guess their motives.

“Technically with the groom, but the guy hates me, so it’s fairer to say I’m a lonesome ranger, venturing into the wild foray of mini-quiches and sparkling wine all by myself,” Paul confesses.

“He hates you and he still invited you?” Hugh asks, lifting an eyebrow in quiet appreciation.

Paul shrugs. “He’s my cousin. He invited everyone else in the family, so he must have felt forced to invite me too. I’m pretty sure he thought I wasn’t coming, which might explain why he put me on a table full of strangers and the rest of my family on the other side of the room.”

“He might have done that on purpose because he hates you, though,” Hugh points out. Paul takes a long sip of his White Russian.

“Of course, but I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt,” Paul replies, making them both laugh.

“Do you care to share why he hates you or is this something that will make me hate you, too?”

Paul shakes his head. “We got into a fight when we were teenagers and I broke his nose. I never really apologised and don’t plan on doing it soon either.” Paul watches Hugh’s reaction, trying to gauge how the next part of his story will be received. In the end, he decides to go for it, consequences be damned. “The guy is a fucking dick. He doesn’t _deserve_ an apology. The only reason I came tonight was because my mother asked me to and I already regret it.”

Hugh stares at him in silence for a minute, making Paul cringe. Well, there goes his company for the night. It was a bad call on his behalf, anyway. He should have assumed anyone who came to Rick’s wedding had at least some degree of affection for the guy. Paul swallows the rest of his drink in one go, deciding it’s time for him to beat a hasty retreat.

He’s stopped just as he gets on his feet by a warm hand on his arm.

“You’re my new favourite person at this wedding,” Hugh tells him, smiling at Paul like Paul has told him he knows the ending of _Inception_. “I’m here with the bride, who is my sister and whom I love dearly, but who I’m also judging with all my heart for marrying a douchebag.”

Paul immediately sits down again. “Your sister is marrying _him_?” he asks, scandalised and horrified all at once.

Hugh swallows the rest of his drink and signals the waiter for another round for both of them. Paul reaches out to pat his shoulder. And he thought he was unlucky.

“She thinks he’s charming. Charismatic. _Funny_.” Hugh gags, but doesn’t stop talking. It seems that once he gets going, it’s impossible for him to stop. “I can’t tell if she’s suffering from Stockholm’s syndrome or if she just has terrible taste in men. Sometimes I wanna ask if she actually listens to the shit that comes out of the guy’s mouth. For god’s sake, he says shit like ‘marriage should only be between a man and a woman’ and he hates immigrants. Like, hello!” Hugh waves a hand around his face. “I’m Puerto Rican. The woman you’re marrying is Puerto Rican. Her whole family is Puerto Rican. We are the people you so claim to hate.”

“Don’t forget how he hates the welfare system and poor people, but will spend two hundred euros on some fucking doves for his wedding,” Paul says. Hugh hides his face in his palms, only looking up when the waiter shows up with their drinks.

“The doves.” Hugh shakes his head. “How many died?”

Paul stops drinking for a second to answer. “Two,” he says, and then, “we should get some shots after this if you’re up for it.”

Hugh gives him a look of mild disgust. “I’m Puerto Rican. Of course I’m up for it.”

“Just checking,” Paul says, lifting his hands in surrender. Tonight has just taken a very pleasant twist and he plans to make the most of it.

After they get their shots, Paul starts to lose track of the night.

He knows he spends a lot of time bitching about Rick with Hugh, that the drinks flow freely and liberally and that at some point his mother shows up and asks if he’s alright, forcing him to put on his best innocent expression. “I’m perfect, thank you,” he says. By his side, Hugh giggles—fucking _giggles._

“Wow, you’re giggling. You did not strike me as the giggling type,” Paul says.

“That’s because you told her you were ‘perfect’ while holding a tequila shot in one hand and a lemon wedge in the other. I’m just saying, I don’t think she believed you.”

Paul looks at his mother, who is by the bar talking to his father. Every so often, they’ll glance at Paul and look all worried. Paul tries to smile, figures that won’t do him much good and throws back the tequila shot.

“You know what you should do? You should go ask the bartender with the ponytail for a bottle of tequila, and then you and I should leave before we get a talk on alcohol and its many dangers.”

“What makes you think he’s going to give me a whole bottle of tequila?” Hugh asks, giving him a curious look.

Paul rolls his eyes. “The guy has been checking you out since the moment we sat here.”

“He has?” Hugh smiles. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Paul can’t tell if he’s being genuine or not, but he figures it doesn’t matter since Hugh does Paul asked and gets them a whole bottle of tequila with a wink and an easy smile.

“I used to do that all the time when I was in university,” Hugh tells him conversationally as they make their way outside.

“What? Flirt with bartenders for free drinks?” Paul asks.

“Flirt for free stuff in general. You never did it?”

Paul laughs and shakes his head. “I think I was usually the one paying for the stuff.”

“Well, tonight you ain’t paying a dime.” The way Hugh grins at Paul is just a shade shy of lewd.

“If I’d met you while I was still in university, I…” Paul starts to say, trailing off mid-sentence. They’re outside now, walking side by side towards a small garden at the back of the hotel, away from everyone else. Hugh has the bottle open, but he’s not drinking.

“You what?” Hugh asks, eyes open wide in imitation of a toddler’s expression. He doesn’t play the innocent card well. It’s the cheekbones and the curve of his smile. Hugh smiles like he has the world on the tip of his tongue and if he wanted to, he could swallow it whole.

Paul is too old for this. He’s too old to go to weddings of people he hates, to slam down tequila shots and pretend he’s only twenty and there are no grey streaks in his hair. He’s too old to flirt with strangers who flirt back and look at him like they want to eat him up. He’s too old for all of it.

Then again, who died and made his responsible side the boss of him?

Paul seizes the bottle from Hugh’s hand and takes a large swig. He’s already come this far, he might as well go all the way and see where it takes him.

“You want some?” he asks, raising the bottle in Hugh’s direction. He makes sure to hold eye contact the whole time.

“I’m good,” Hugh replies. Paul nods. That’s all he needs to hear before he puts the bottle on the ground, closes the space between them and kisses him.

Hugh’s breath is heavy and stained with alcohol. His hands are quick to slip underneath Hugh’s shirt, pulling it up so he can stroke the skin on Paul’s covering ribs. As he does this, he moves one hand away from Paul’s chest towards his hair, as if messing with Paul’s clothes wasn’t enough, he has to mess with his entire appearance.

Paul doesn’t care about any of it. He couldn’t begin to care in a million years. He is so far from caring he feels like he’s floating through space in another galaxy. If Hugh wants to bite his neck and leave a hickey for everyone to see, Paul will let him. If Hugh wants to fuck against the wall, Paul will let him. If Hugh wants to pull him inside out and leave him broken and wanting, Paul will let him.

Paul kind of wants Hugh to do all those things.

Kissing Hugh ends up being like a game of pulling and pushing, giving and receiving. Hugh bites Paul’s lips, pushes Paul against the wall and lets him take control of the kiss as he grinds their bodies together. There’s not much logic to it. There’s not much logic at all.

“The suit you’re wearing looks really good on you,” Paul tells him halfway through a string of bites and kisses, “but it’d look a lot better on my floor.”

Hugh laughs with both his hands on Paul’s hair, ruining it past the point of mending. “That’s the worst line ever,” he says.

Paul grins. “I know and I can assure you I’m going to be super smug about it when your suit eventually ends up on my floor.”

“A bit presumptuous, aren’t we?”

Paul gropes Hugh’s ass through his pants. “Nah,” he replies, glowing with lazy confidence. He may be old, but he hasn’t forgotten how to do this. Paul kisses him again.

“Tell you what,” Hugh says, breaking the kiss. “You can have my suit on your floor _if_ you take me inside for a dance.”

Paul pauses. “Seriously?” he asks.

Hugh grins. “Oh yes,” he says. There’s a whole layer of meaning behind his words that Paul’s tipsy brain isn’t able to catch, but Paul can’t bring himself to care.

If Hugh wants to dance, then they will dance and they will dazzle the dancefloor.

Paul is a _fantastic_ dancer.

“You are a terrible dancer,” is the first thing that comes out of Hugh’s mouth after the first song they dance together. Something from the nineties that Paul can’t even recognise.

“How dare you,” Paul gasps. He sounds at least forty percent more scandalised than any sober person would.

Hugh giggles, _again_ , and maybe he does have a thing for giggling. “Well, no, to be fair you’re a pretty decent dancer. If we were at a club right now with glitter everywhere and a sign saying ‘twinks drink for free’ at the bar, I would be super impressed by your dance moves. As it is, we’re at a wedding and all we’ve done so far is grind on each other, and let me tell you, there are many people looking at us right now and none of them seem to appreciate your dancing skills.”

For a second time that night, Paul pauses and looks down at their bodies, realising that they’re in a similar position to the one they were in less than five minutes ago. Only then, it was just the two of them outside, and now there’s Aunt Petra staring at them like they’ve just murdered her old dog Flintstone.

“This isn’t good,” Paul thinks out loud.

“It’s actually kind of hilarious. Half the people here look like they want to kill us,” Hugh replies. Paul is torn between glaring at him and kissing him.

“You should have stopped me,” Paul says. Hugh’s grin is three-quarters of wicked and one-quarter amused.

“I got lost in the moment,” he replies, grinding their bodies together.

Paul can’t read him at all. He finds that he doesn’t mind this as much as he could.

He does mind the staring, just the tiniest bit. Mostly because he knows his brother and Straal struck some kind of deal between them last year. They now share embarrassing material on Paul and make fun of him at all available opportunities. The chance that Tobias is filming him dance with Hugh seems extremely high.

Straal is evil and so is Tobias. Hugh would probably love them if he met them.

Paul has just decided it’s time they call a cab and go back to his apartment when none other than the man of the night, Mister Rick Stamets, strolls up to him and taps him on the shoulder. Paul slowly turns around to stare at his cousin. To say Rick looks pissed is the understatement of the year. There’s steam coming out of Rick’s ears and pure anger seeping from his pores.

Somewhere in the background, the sirens from Kill Bill start ringing.

“What do you two think you’re doing?” Rick hisses.

The sarcastic part of Paul’s brain replies for him on automatic. He really needs to start spending less time with Straal.

“We’re dancing, couldn’t you tell?”

“That is _not_ dancing,” Rick whispers. The veins in his temples look like they’re about to pop.

Paul could feel bad for him. He could also paint himself green, slap some leafs to his forehead and call himself a tree. Both options are as equally ridiculous, improbable and proof that just because you can do something, it doesn’t mean you should do it.

“It’s not your type of dancing, that’s for sure,” Paul says. Maybe tonight’s the night Rick gets his revenge and punches Paul back.

“You two need to leave,” Rick hisses, glaring at both Paul and Hugh. Ah, maybe not then.

“Fine,” Paul hisses back. Before he can think better of it, he adds, “but this one is for the doves.”

In a sudden movement, Paul escapes from Rick’s reach, runs towards the center of the room and does what he’s been wanting to do since the night began -- he reaches one dirty, sweaty hand towards the perfect wedding cake, composed of three layers of chocolate and strawberry goodness, all yet to be cut, and he takes a handful.

People all around the room gasp. At least one person screams. It might be Hugh’s sister. Paul has no clue.

The next thing he knows there’s someone behind him. Paul worries about getting his ass kicked until he notices it’s Hugh, who is grinning as wide as his mouth allows him to. “You’re amazing,” he says as he reaches towards the cake and grabs a large handful as well.

If they make it home alive, Paul may or may not have to marry him.

“We should run now,” Paul whispers.

“Definitely,” Hugh agrees.

They make it out of the wedding hall before anyone has a chance to grab them and yell at them. Once they’ve made it into a cab, Hugh pretty much climbs into his lap and kisses him breathless.

In the end, talking to Hugh was a decision Paul didn't regret at all.


End file.
